


The Lightning Express

by Sunny_Bee



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 17:55:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10253699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunny_Bee/pseuds/Sunny_Bee
Summary: With financial ruin creeping just around the corner, Bucky decides to go out of town to find work and keep Steve and himself afloat. Things are going well, then he gets a letter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-war in the frame of Stucky, but it can be friendship if you'd like.

Rays of gloomy spring sunshine press through the enormous windows of a train station abuzz with chatter. A young man stands amidst the hubbub with nothing but a letter in his hands. He wears a simple suit, and his dark hair is clean and carefully slicked back. In contrast, his face is unshaven, something he would never be caught dead with, and his coat is tattered from living many lives on the shoulders of strangers. He reads his letter for the third time that morning and runs a hand over his face, exhaustion pressing his eyes shut for a time that will never be long enough. 

_ Steve is sick. _

He reads the words again and hopes they'll change. 

They don't. 

Regret gnaws on his skull, feeding his headache. Memories explode behind his eyelids. The summer before kindergarten, playing tag. Steve tumbling down the hill, lying limp at the bottom, arms trembling under his own weight. Having to carry Steve's schoolwork to and from school everyday because Steve was almost always chained to his bed. Steve, always down the hall of the complex with an armful of sketches weaved from spiders thread and a body just as fragile. Getting an apartment, finally free from parents, free from teachers, free from the kids who stared to long, or called Steve a twig. Then there were the bills. So many bills. They were drowning in bills and thirsty for money. He never should have left Brooklyn, but Steve's lungs were weak and his best friend was choking on paper. The hospital kept tossing down more paper. So he left town to get a better job.   
  
It had been going well. Two weeks in, three days away from the one piece of paper that could save their lives. Then another cursed paper came and took that all away with familiar, sloping signature in the upper left corner. Sarah Reeves, it said. Steve's mother would never write him unless something was wrong with Steve. He left without a word, rushed to the train station even though he knew that there was no way he could afford a ticket.

He needed to get home, and the train was the fastest way to get there; that was all that mattered.

On a normal day, he would finesse his way onto the train, charming passengers into paying his fare and chatting smartly with his sponsors the whole ride there. Today, he slips onto the train without a word, nothing more than a shadow. 

He slides into the first seat he can find, pulling the crumpled letter from his pocket and reading it again. He clings to each word like a lifeline, as though holding on tight enough would force the words to change.

_ Bucky, _

_ I'll try to keep this short. Steve is sick. _

_ The doctors say he’ll die soon. _

He can't stomach the words. His grief surrounds him like a massive, stormy cloud. Passengers meander down the aisle, chatting merrily until they cross paths with the young man. His storm snuffs out their bright conversations without fail. They try to smile, but there’s something behind it that makes it look odd, forced; pity. His mind recoils, and retreats into the splitting pain at the base of his skull. It would be better to turn back, he thinks, beginning to push up from his seat.

As if on cue, the train lurches forward, crawling out of the station and sealing his fate. He couldn't leave now even if he wanted to. He slowly sinks back into the bench and goes back to his letter. 

_ Bucky, _

_ I'll try to keep this short. Steve is sick. He's got rheumatic fever. It's affecting his heart on top of what he already has to deal with, and the pills they have to treat it are going to eat him from the inside out. The doctors say he'll die soon. Please, Bucky, we both miss you and need you here. _

_ Much Love, _

_ Sarah R. _

He forces himself to look away from the paper and out the window, willing the train to move faster. Clouds crawl across the sky, their dark wisps reaching for the sun. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the conductor moving down the car, standing stiffly in a pressed, navy blue uniform. The conductor is a tall, greying man with wide shoulders and a bushy mustache. His stern expression never changes, even when muttering a curt thanks between ticket validations. 

Bucky looks back down at his letter, then up to the conductor, and doubts that the man will have much sympathy.

All he can do is watch the conductor inch closer to his seat and ponder his fate until it's looking him right in the eyes. 

“Ticket,” the conductor demands gruffly. 

Bucky doesn't bother lying or covering it up with small talk. He simply says, “I don’t have a ticket,” and swallows down the bitter feeling of being useless. 

“Then you’ll be getting off at the next stop,” the conductor tells him coolly, like he would to any other passenger without a ticket. His words hit Bucky like a slap. He had been expecting it long before he had even set foot in the station, but he felt the sting just the same. 

The conductor jerks his head towards the back of the car, a silent order to get up. Lost, Bucky looks back down at the letter in his hands and thinks:  _ Steve. _

Steve would want him to fight for it, not follow orders blindly. Though he couldn’t begin to guess what disasters would come about if he went in headfirst like Steve would. So he picks his words carefully, laying them all out in a short, neat script before he dares to open his mouth.

“Mister conductor, sir.” His voice crackles like an old record player. “It isn’t in my place to say this, but you can’t put me off of this train.” He clutches the letter in his hands, trying to absorb the strength to fight from it. 

The conductor raises an eyebrow, waiting to hear his excuse. 

“It’s my best friend,” Bucky says, holding out his letter. The conductor takes it and looks it over, his face impassive. 

“He’s waiting for me, probably in more pain than you or I could ever imagine. They say he’s gonna die, sir.” His doubts and fears tangle and sit on his tongue, scraping the roof of his mouth like a chunk of steel wool. He wants to swallow them, to feel the words rip up his throat and never have to face them. But the steel becomes too heavy. It falls out of his mouth and into his lap, forcing him to face reality.

“He could be dead right now.” 

He realizes that he doesn’t need to act anymore. The raw desperation in his eyes is truer than anything he could possibly say. The train gently wobbles on the tracks. The world around Bucky is crumbling, and Steve is a cheap glue holding it all together.

The conductor reads the letter again, thoroughly this time, and looks down at Bucky. He doesn’t smile or frown, just looks. His jaw clenches with the effort of fighting off his morals. Bucky stares at his feet, trying to smother his disappointment.

“If you put him off it’s a right shame, sir,” a woman’s silvery voice cuts in, each word punctuated by her bright, red lipstick. She stands slowly, grounding her feet to the rickety train. She takes a moment to smooth her dress and fix her hair before meeting the conductor’s eye, poised and determined. “You give me two minutes and I’ll get that boy a ticket,” she promises, and turns to face the rest of the train. 

“Does anybody have some change to spare for this kid?” 

The pleasant hum of conversation dies out. Passengers turn to ogle at the interruption. 

“His best friend’s dying at home and waiting for him to get back.”

People stare blankly, if they’re brave enough to look up at her at all. She looks out at the car, sure that someone will offer up something. They must. But no one moves. The woman frowns.

People inch back to the safety of their conversations, shackled to their shameful pride. Bucky wants to sink into the floor. Never put your faith in another man's wallet, not if you can help it, he tells himself bitterly. The train shudders. 

Amidst the silence, a weathered hand rises up, shaking more than the train on the tracks. Clenched in the old man’s palm is a dollar, a fifth of the ticket. 

She and Bucky sigh in relief.

The shackles clack to the ground. Others begin to offer up what they can; nickels, dimes and pennies. The woman thanks each patron, gripping their hand tightly to try and convey her level of gratitude. She confidently marches up to the conductor and hands him the change, all neatly wrapped up in the wrinkled bill. “That should be enough,” she says, flashing a charming smile that reads, “I told you so.” 

The conductor fights a smile, pleased by the combined efforts of the passengers. “Your friend has my best wishes,” the conductor says stiffly, his sense of authority still fighting a losing battle against his morals. He moves on to the next car. 

The woman plops down on the bench in front of Bucky, satisfied with her work.

He cradles the letter in his hands, near tears. “I’m obliged to you, miss,” he murmurs, as though speaking too loud would shatter the moment and he would be staring up at the conductor all over again. Her pride softens. “Laura. And it’s not a problem.” She leans back and they both watch the world fly by them. Neither of them says another word for the rest of the ride. 

The sun weakly flickers between thickets of clouds when the train finally pulls into the Brooklyn stop. Passengers flood out of the train, scattering like seeds off a dandelion. Bucky reigns in his scattered emotions, forcing them to stick together long enough for him to appear normal and get out of sight. He doesn’t want anyone he knows to see him like this. A stranger’s pity had nearly killed him, but a familiar’s would be far worse. So he holds his head up, that fear held as far down his chest as the hands shoved in his pockets, and tries to pace a casual stroll out of the station. 

He ducks into an alleyway, checking over his shoulder before he turns another corner and pulls into a run. His feet slap against the wet pavement, pushing him up and away, over puddles and cracks in the pavement like they were landmines. The ichor is heavy in the air, and the sky is heavy with rain. Smoke rises up from the buildings, feeding the storm. The clouds swallow up the last beams of light, and it begins to rain. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, you can listen to The Lightning Express by Norah Jones. I really hope that you liked this. I may expand on this idea into the past/future, but who knows? Have a good rest of your day :)


End file.
